Page from a Tennessee Journal (AmazonEncore Edition)

cobblers, heavy with cinnamon and nutmeg, were baking away. Big Red mounded up a pile of dough and slapped it on his wooden work board as he turned to stir the big kettle of cut-up sweet potatoes, sending their syrupy scent throughout the kitchen. On the eye next to the kettle stood a second pot full of turnip greens mixed with ham hocks bubbling their heavy promise into the air.
    “Thought I’d get me an early start today.” John didn’t take kindly to Big Red.
    All three hundred pounds of the red-boned man sneered down at Nashville newcomers, especially those who had sharecropped for the white farmers. Those, he thought, were too dumb to ever make it at big city living. To Big Red, John Welles was just one of about five “yokels” working for Miz Zeola this summer.
    “Uh huh. You one slick country boy all right.” Big Red gave him a quick look before he started rattling off the supplies needed for that night’s supper.
    Red never gave him a written list, and John was convinced the cook could neither read nor write.
    “Six loaves of light bread, fo’ hams, a peck of sweet potatoes, and half a bushel of black-eyed peas,” John repeated the list back to Big Red in his most conciliatory voice. He had no time for an argument with this man.
    When he first arrived in July, John watched the other yokels go the rounds with Big Red only to be fired in rapid order. Welles had spent his first month in Nashville eating only one meal a day trying to stretch the money he had taken from Annalaura until he could get himself a job. Losing both job and money after a few days to a big red-skinned cook who had no real power did not interest him. John would shuffle like Massa’s best nigger until he could get his chance with Miz Zeola.
    “Ain’t I jest told you ’bout the liquor? We needs twelve mo’ bottles of bourbon whiskey, three jars of good branch water, and fifteen mo’ of gin.” Red turned from the greens and glared at John.
    “Ain’t no need of you comin’ ’round here early to get in yo’ good licks with Miz Zeola. She eat country boys like you fo’ breakfast.” Spittle from Big Red’s mouth found its way into the greens pot. “I see you flashin’ them teeth at every woman come ’round here. I hear them words, smooth as rum, that you po’ over Miz Zeola’s head. I’m here to tell you, it ain’t gonna work.” Big Red gave the side of the greens kettle a loud whack with the wooden spoon.
    “I hears every word you say, and I surely will take it to heart. But I think you gots me wrong. I’m headin’ back to my family as soon as I put a little something away for the winter.” John spread his lips but made sure his white-on-white teeth didn’t show.
    “Every country boy ’round here is runnin’ from the tobacca. Ain’t September harvest time out in tobacca country?” Red’s eyes were narrow slits when he turned toward John.
    Welles saw more of the Indian in the cook than he did in his wife.
    “That it surely is, but my woman got kinfolk to help bring in the harvest.” He let his words drip just a hint of apology as he lied to Big Red.
    It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought of Annalaura in the three months he’d been gone. She was never really off of his mind. Of all the women he’d ever met, she was the cream on the milk. Sometimes, he’d fix his mouth to tell her how much she meant to him, but every husband knows that sweet-talkin’ words can be the ruination of a good wife. When he left her after the two of them put the seed in the ground in late May, he had every intention of getting back to her bed way before the September harvest. But that thirty-two-dollar pot he won playing poker up in Clarksville seemed like a message straight from the Lord. It had Nashville written all over it. And there was no time to dance with Annalaura. Even though his wife had more sense than all the other females put together, still she was a woman and would never understand that it hurt a man to the middle of his soul to do no better by his family than to have them live in a white man’s barn sleeping with the hogs.
    “You jest make sure you don’t git too big for them country overalls of your’n.” Big Red liked to guffaw at his own jokes.
    John had wasted enough time with this man who acted enormously satisfied with his role as chief cook in a whorehouse. John had grander plans. He hadn’t slipped into the smoke house and pried open the locked metal box where Annalaura kept their savings for